Hetavision 2014
by ChocolateTurnip
Summary: After the Eurovison curtain comes down for another year, the nations regroup and reflect on their chosen singers' weird and wonderful performances. LietPol, AusHun, slight FrUK and possible NedBel (though it can just be read as sibling love).


There had been a time when he believed that all the petty neighbourhood squabbles had resolved themselves. There had been a time when he believed that the world he lived in was a world of fairness. That was before tonight.

Looking back, he still could not understand it. How could it be that nobody appreciated the gorgeous talent and subtle cleverness of his performance? His singers had not seemed to mind the results especially, and had taken their defeat in good stride. He supposed that was to be expected. They were young, after all; perhaps too young to understand the elegant art of channelling inner beauty.

Yet it was something that _he_ understood all too well, and the more he dwelt on the injustice of his catastrophic loss, the more broken he felt within.

He was so lost within his tangle of melancholy that he didn't hear the door bursting open behind, nor the footsteps pounding up to him. But he did hear the voice a second later. That triumphant, merciless and oh-so-familiar voice.

"Ha, Frog! How's it feel to have enough fingers on one hand to count your points?"

Any other time, France would have had a smooth comeback ready and waiting. Now, he couldn't even bring himself to turn around.

"Angleterre, please," It scared him to hear how quiet his voice was; how close to breaking, "Now is not the time..."

He doubted that England had even heard him. Or, if he had, he was clearly incapable of sensing emotion.

"You thought you could win with a couple of hipster frogs singing about your fashion fantasies?" He paused to laugh indulgently. Not the sort of laugh that suggested amusement, but rather, vindictive pleasure. "Haven't I always been saying that everyone hates you?"

'Everyone hates you.' France knew that he'd only said the words out of spite, but they rang a painful truth. There had been a time when he had been regarded as the most gorgeous of all the nations. Tourists had flocked from far and wide to sample the elegance of his capital- the boutiques and the patisseries and the _romance_. There had just been an inexplicable style about him then, a certain... _je ne sais quoi_.

Now what had he become? A nation so pathetic that even England, practically the personification of tastelessness felt entitled to mock him.

Emotion heaved inside again, too intense to contain. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears came anyway and spilt down his cheeks like falling stars.

He was still facing the wall, but England must have heard the sob for he fell into instant silence. It was a few moments before he spoke again and said a most peculiar, strangled sort of "Sorry".

In truth, France had already forgiven him. Yet he still could not speak. It wouldn't do to have tears choking his sexy voice, after all. He heard England kneeling down to his level and felt the wary had on his shoulder. Finally, finally, France allowed himself to turn.

He wasn't sure whether to be happy or not to see that England looked slightly flustered. "Bloody hell, France! It's-it's only a competition!"

The use of his actual name was something truly touching, France thought. That was the thing about England. He was always so harsh, so... confrontational that his rare moments of regret were the most real and beautiful moments in the world.

"Angleterre, tell me truthfully," His voice _did_ sound choked, but he was past caring by then, "Am I losing mon _je ne sais quoi_?"

"Your _what_?"

"My... my..." He racked his brains and settled on an appropriately blunt English translation, "My sex appeal."

There was no doubt about it; England certainly seemed flustered then. It was a look that seemed to suit him somehow. A look which perfectly summarised that foolishly-English custom of repression.

"Well... I-I wouldn't quite say that you've... ahhh..." He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh honestly, how am I supposed to know? You know I'm not good at this romance stuff."

His tone was dismissive, but the fact that he was actually willing to admit some form of inability spoke volumes to France. Not only was it touching, it was reassuring too.

"You remember 'ow we used to be, though?" he pushed on, "We won this competition five times, both of us. Were we better then? More admired?"

"There were less countries competing. Iron Curtain, remember?"

"Oui, I _know_. But..." He paused in the struggle to find the right words. "I tried my 'ardest this year. I 'oped my singers could show me in a modern and fashionable light again. But nobody else thought the same."

England sighed, deeply and drawn-out, his frown-lines wrinkling. Seriousness was something which seemed to suit him too, although that was blatantly _un_-English. Perhaps that was the reason it made him look handsome.

"To be honest, France, I think Eurovision is about far more than the song itself. I genuinely thought _I_ was in with a chance this year. Molly's a good singer, and a message about world unity was bound to win everyone over." He looked down and shrugged with false flippancy. "But all of those things overlook the fact that I don't actually have friends."

France felt his eyes widening. "Oh. Oh Angl- England..."

"I don't know why you're using that surprised voice with me." he said, arms folded, "You must have noticed by now that you're not the only one who's alone in Europe."

France wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that- the truth brutally and ingloriously stated- so he responded in the only way he knew how. By leaning forward, and kissing him unashamedly on the mouth. Too spontaneous to be romantic. Too sorrowful to be meaningless.

England did nothing to encourage his lips as they brushed his. But he did nothing to deter them either. Instead, he arranged a stiff and awkward arm around the shoulders of his old enemy and let him lean his head against his chest. Discovering that there was very little there in the way of muscle definition gave France a childish surge of victory.

It felt surprisingly good, sitting there with him. Being held in the aftermath of tears and crushing defeat. Alone together, he decided.

But- with England being England- he doubted that the moment would last. And sure enough, he had to break their pact of silence eventually.

"So... why exactly _do_ you want a moustache anyway?"

* * *

"Poland, no!"

There was little use in begging, though. For even as Lithuania backed up against the wall, glancing around desperately for some means of escape, Poland was moving in closer. It was so unfair the way he was swaying his hips and batting his eyelids like that. As if he was trying to be provocative on purpose.

"Oh come _on_, Liet!" There was something of a whine in his voice which Lithuania refused to find sexy. "I know how much you loved watching my Slavic girls really."

"No I didn't! It was sexist and disgusting." He was sweating now, and he felt furious with himself for it. "And I-I don't appreciate you trying to seduce me with it either!"

"_Trying_? Liet, you know I've totally succeeded."

He winked with irritating roguishness and turned around to collect the props waiting on the table behind. 'Run,' a wiser part of Lithuania's mind told him, 'Just run now and you'll never have to endure this ridiculous display.'

But something in him- some wild and disobedient monster- was secretly entranced by Poland's every move. A monster which kept him rooted to the spot.

Poland bent to pick up the equipment and his backside stuck out exaggeratedly through a traditional and skin-tight pair of trousers. It seemed to take him far too long to retrieve them, but when he finally had the milk pail and the churner in his arms he straightened slowly and sauntered back over. Already, Lithuania could feel the area around his groin growing unbearably tight.

"Alright, ready for this badass performance?"

Not waiting for an answer, Poland cradled the pail in one hand and began to churn with the other. His body shifted up and down in time with his arm movements, creating a rhythm that was steady, alluring and powerfully sensual. At no point did he ever drop his gaze; his sly green eyes penetrating Lithuania's to the core.

Over time, he increased the pace. The changes were gradual at first, then the tempo leapt up without warning. Suddenly, Poland's arms were churning and churning like his life depended on it and his body rolled back and forth with reckless urgency. It was too frantic, _too_ intense, and Lithuania forced his eyes away.

His breaths were heavy and his heart was thumping fit to burst, neither of which were helped at all by Poland's frustrated little grunts and gasps. God! He needed him so badly that he felt ashamed to admit it even in his head; disgusted by his own filthy desires. And- if that coy grin was anything to go by- Poland understood _exactly_ how he was manipulating him.

There was a break in the rhythmic squelches of butter, and Lithuania looked back warily. When he saw that Poland had finished and that the churner rested on one side of the pail, he wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

Poland dipped a finger into the pail, scooping out a dollop of butter in a way that could only be described as 'suggestive'. His eyes closed momentarily as he sampled the flavour.

"Mmmmm, yeah..." he licked his lips, "Can't beat the wicked-awesome taste of the homemade."

Lithuania fought to keep his voice steady. "Poland... You shouldn't have done that."

"What?" Poland pouted with playful indignation, "You, like, got a problem with me being patriotic or something?"

When he spoke in that wounded, accusatory tone, Lithuania could almost believe that he hadn't just tried to corrupt him. Almost believe that the butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. _Almost_.

"You know that's not what I meant!"

Poland rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Liet, lighten up!" He dunked his finger into the pail again and held the blob of butter in front of Lithuania's mouth. "You know, if you, like, actually choose something decent and qualify next year, I'll let you do this to me."

He closed one eye and stuck out his tongue, blurring the line between angelic and devilish seamlessly. It was so infuriating that it made Lithuania want to kiss and strangle him simultaneously. But, since neither was an option, he settled instead for sucking the blob from Poland's finger.

The butter melted into golden bliss the moment it touched his tongue; sweet and rich and gooey. Poland was staring at him knowingly, waiting for his verdict.

"Good, right?"

Lithuania shrugged. "Um, y-yeah. I guess..."

Maybe Slavic girls did know a thing or two about charm after all.

* * *

He hadn't spoken much since arriving home. Belgium noticed that he wasn't drinking the hot chocolate she made him- in his favourite tulip-patterned mug, no less- but cradling it in his hands, and gazing intently into the rising wisps of rising steam. Something wasn't quite at peace in him, she could tell.

"Ned?" He looked up as she called him, "Ned, you're disappointed aren't you?"

He narrowed his eyes in contemplation before shaking his head. "Nah. The best nation won, we all know that. Even you agreed."

"My people agreed, not me." she pointed out, "Personally, I preferred your representatives."

His lip twisted like he'd eaten something bitter. "You're just _saying_ that, though, aren't you?"

"When have I ever said something I didn't mean?" she snapped, "It was such... such a romantic performance."

And it had been romantic. The most romantic performance of the night, Belgium realised. Netherlands' chosen musicians seemed to forget all about the starlight, the cameras, the competition, and simply sang into each other's eyes. Watching a display so personal and moving had sent shivers up her spine.

Netherlands grunted, though whether in appreciation or just to fill the silence, she couldn't tell. Snuggling closer, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"I was wondering, though, what made you choose those two, exactly? They're so different from the usual entrants."

And a million miles apart from her representative's shambolic performance, she thought with a shudder. Maybe it was lucky that they'd been knocked out in the semis so they didn't have to face the embarrassment of performing in front of everyone.

Her head was jostled slightly under his deep sigh. "Well... I guess that song reminded me of you."

"Of _me_?" Out of all the possible responses, that wasn't one she'd been expecting at all.

"Yeah. Made me think of all our conflicts in the past. The time you stayed with Spain, the time you split away from me after our unification, all the wars and battles we fought. Every time afterwards, I remember thinking 'bout you and wondering whether there was a chance we could reconcile. Whether I could get you to trust me again." he laughed stiffly and took a gulp of hot chocolate, "Pretty dumb, right?"

Belgium didn't respond immediately. Partly because words felt inadequate somehow, and partly because of the lump clogging her throat. She remembered the times he'd mentioned well; the aftermaths even more so. Each time she'd felt so fulfilled, certain that she was doing the right thing for her land and her people, yet always with the niggling guilt in the part of her mind that still cared for him. Perhaps the most human part of all.

She coaxed her arms around his shoulders and clung on like she never wanted to let go.

"That was a long time ago." she whispered, "Look at us now, together and on good terms again. As countries as well as people."

"Yeah," he said, and a smile graced his features for the first time that night, "Calm after the storm."

* * *

When the hotel door clicked open and he came into their room, there were two things she noticed immediately.

One was that he had the Austrian flag draped around his shoulders like a superhero's cape. The other was that he was still wearing his knitted beard. Both uncharacteristic; both making her heart beat faster.

They hadn't had much of a chance to speak to each other during the contest. It was expected of countries to stay by the sides of their representatives (save from the actual performance), but she hadn't been able to help stealing glances over to her lover's section. And whenever she saw him congratulating his singer or bending to kiss her hand, Hungary felt like she was melting with love inside.

It was expected of her to remain patriotic too, but deep down it was Austria she was truly supporting. She celebrated for him in her head; mentally cheering when his representative won points, mentally chanting 'Con-chi-ta! Con-chi-ta!' along with the crowd. The triumph she felt on his behalf was overwhelming, and increased further still when he flung his arms around his singer's shoulders for a victory hug.

It was this hug which Hungary tried to replicate now. She did her utmost to put as much unspoken emotion in it as possible, only hoping that he understood the meaning behind her arms. Given how he was hugging back and whispering her name into her hair, she was willing to bet that he did.

It took some time for them to pull away. Not wanting to fully let him go, Hungary stepped back and cradled his face in her hands. She looked at him like that for a long moment.

"You've been crying, haven't you?"

His chest puffed up in outrage. "Wh-what? I most certainly have not!"

"You have though. Your eyes are all red and puffy."

She tracked the red rims lovingly with a thumb. It was rare to see her Austria lose his composure and she intended to relish the opportunity. Pulling his false beard down, she flicked her tongue against his cheek.

"Yep, definitely tastes salty."

He began to stutter out another protest, but she stole the words away with a kiss. It was quite similar to their hug; long and stirring and meaningful.

Decades of practice had taught them both to anticipate the ending of kisses and they broke this one mutually. His face was beautifully flushed- whether from the aftermath of tears or something more was uncertain- and it made her giggle.

"Are you proud of her, then? Your Conchita?"

His nod was enthusiastic and genuine. "Extremely so. In fact, I do not remember feeling this proud of a citizen for rather some-"

He didn't even manage to get the sentence out before she threw herself onto him again, kissing hungrily and backing him towards the bed. It was hard to explain, but Austria's acceptance- no, outright _support_- of an issue so close to her heart meant the whole world to her.

Hungary waited until he was arranged comfortably on the mattress like an angel before straddling him. His perfect suit seemed, in her opinion, inappropriate now, so she attacked it mercilessly. Resting his arms behind his head, Austria settled back to allow her full access. The knowing smile he wore was teasing, as if daring her to take control.

"Conchita asked me to deliver a message, by the way." he said, and the calmness in his voice was maddening, "She wishes to thank your people for their ten points."

Hungary didn't look up from tearing at his shirt buttons. "And András wants to thank _your_ people for their seven."

"Speaking on their behalf, he's quite welcome." he shuddered slightly as her teeth glanced against his neck, "Although I question your choice somewhat. Child abuse, dear?"

She'd almost succeeded in sensually removing his jabot, and held the cloth poised in her mouth. To avoid spitting it out to reply, she shrugged lazily.

"It made me feel rather guilty, actually." he continued, "Reminded me of the way I used to treat Italy sometimes."

She pulled the jabot away with her teeth and tossed it aside. "You weren't that bad!"

"I used to lock him in the cellar. And I stepped on him whenever he resisted."

"You taught him how to play the piano too. He was happy with us." She pressed her lips against his bare stomach. His needy groan was by far the most beautiful sound she had heard all night. "To be honest, I chose it to be different. Hardly anyone chose a serious theme this year- apart for you."

He merely smiled at that and she sat up to stroke his cheek. It was ironic really, he always used to be obsessive with being clean-shaven when they were younger. But now, if she wasn't very much mistaken, his skin was roughened with the bristles of stubble.

"Everyone else was saying how Conchita was an unfitting choice for you," she said, "They thought you'd be too straight-laced for a social statement."

"I was a little reluctant at first," he admitted, "Then I thought of, well, _you_. You've been quite the personification of gender-fluidity at times."

Hungary grinned, and wondered which times he was thinking of. Perhaps in her youth when she took the identity of a wild and violent nomad boy. Perhaps in the 18th and 19th centuries where she donned men's military garb to defend him. Perhaps even recently when she'd dressed up as the Prince to his Princess for Halloween. All times shared with him.

"True," she removed his glasses and placed them on the bedside table, "But I thought the song was more like _you_."

He spluttered. "Really? How so?"

"Well, it was refined-" she ran a hand playfully over his chest, "-and elegant-" she traced a circle around his stomach, "-and so intense beneath the surface that it made me want to cry." Her hand finally snuck underneath his pants and his back arched at the touch.

"I- ahhhh- Well, I'm glad one of us managed to hold it together."

"Aha!" she raised her eyebrows and smirked, "So you _did_ cry, then?"

Blushing slightly, he looked aside. "I- it was a very emotional night..."

Hungary took her hand out of his pants and slid it behind his head. Guiding him up to her, she kissed him again; claiming possessively with her tongue. Austria belonged to her and her alone. He was her ex-husband, her companion, her lover, her _everything_.

They pulled away lightly and again in perfect synch. When Hungary spoke, her breath tickled his lips.

"It _was_ an emotional night. And it's not quite over yet, either."

He wrapped his arms around her and lifted the corners of his lips. A half-serious, half-smitten sort of smile that was so very Austrian.

"Then be my flame."

* * *

*I personally adore Eurovision, and Hetalia makes it about 100x better. This year was especially good. So many great songs and I was delighted that Austria won (because I voted for Conchita!) I really wanted to write something about this, and luckily enough, a request for 'Obligatory Hetavision Fun' came up, so I decided to fulfil it. Only a week late, heh heh.*


End file.
